Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)

I’m not one to get nervous about something like sex, but as Quinton pushes open the door to his apartment, my stomach rolls with the same nerves it was earlier when I tried to back out of this whole plan. Only now, it’s churning with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.

I don’t know what it is about him that’s got me all out of sorts.

Maybe it’s because whenever I hook up with a guy, most of the time, I’m the one doing the chasing. Coming onto him, picking him up at the bar or club. The first message online if I’m looking to find a quick lay on Toppr, this hook-up app for the gay community.

It’s where I’m most comfortable. In charge and in control. Taking the lead.

But this? Planning out sex? The when and where, and all of it being on someone else’s terms? Someone else doing the chasing for a change? And to top it off, having that person be Quinton?

It’s got me off-balance. And not in the fun, new, exciting way either. It’s more in the weird way you get when you’re about to have sex for the first time. More anticipation than is healthy, and even when you know what you’re doing—thanks to the extensive amount of porn you’ve watched—it all goes out the window the second the two of you are alone.

“Hayes is gone for the weekend,” Quinton says, cutting into my thoughts.

“Hayes?” My eyes flick to where his hand is clicking the deadbolt into place, and my body hums even more.

“My roommate.”

Oh, right.

I thought he’d live alone, seeing as the de Haas family has more money than God and might as well own Chicago. So why would anyone want a roommate in college if they can afford to live on their own?

Add it to the list of things I clearly had wrong about Quinton de Haas.

My throat works with difficulty as I lift my gaze to meet his eyes. The heat in them is searing, the same way it was before practice, as he crosses over to stand in front of me. His lips are still red and swollen from my kiss back in the locker room, and from the way he’s got his stare locked on my mouth, mine isn’t faring much better.

“Okay, well I don’t…” I trail off, clearing my throat. “I don’t think we need the whole weekend.”

His lips lifts in a lopsided grin, popping a dimple out on one side. “All-weekend sexcapades aren’t your style? Good to know.”

“It’s not what we agreed to.”

“And you’re always a stickler for the rules, aren’t you?”

Compared to you? Always.

“I—”

His grin grows, and paired with the mischief dancing in his eyes, I realize he’s just giving me shit. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing, because while Quinton joking around is nothing new, having him do it with me must mean I’ve been tossed into some sort of alternate reality.

Or I’ve gone insane.

Then again, this deal we’ve agreed to might be a sign we’ve both lost our goddamn minds. No matter how good it might make us feel in the moment.

“You’re nervous,” he murmurs. A statement, not a question, as he steps further into my personal space. “That’s why you tried to chicken out after practice.”

Once again, just like the night in the bathroom, I find my feet taking me backward. Away from him and the intoxicating aura he casts until I can’t go any further. The backs of my thighs hit the couch, my ass settling onto the cool leather arm. Quinton boxes me in against it. One hand rests on either side of me—so close to my hips—and the heat of his almost-touch sends my pulse skyrocketing.

I hate myself for wanting them to be touching me instead of the leather. To push me onto my back and cover my body with his, naked or not, while we devour each other all over again.

Jesus, I need to slow my roll.

Because, despite how ready my body is for whatever we’re about to do, it doesn’t take away from how much I can’t stand him. It only adds to the nerves he’s picking up on.

I swallow, looking into his eyes and do my best to deflect. “I take it you’re not?”

He blinks at me, slanting his head. That damn dimple pops even more, and shit, why do dimples have to be so fucking attractive?

“You are nervous.”

My teeth sink into my lip as I try to figure out some sort of plausible deniability. The last thing I want is to be an emotional open book when I can barely get a read on him. Unfortunately, I come up with nothing.

“Yeah, I am,” I admit, however begrudgingly. “Guess I’m alone in that sentiment, though.”

He leans back slightly, his eyes darting between mine. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m really not. This? You and me? It’s fucking crazy.” I let out a deep breath. “Part of me feels like I’ve gone off the deep end by even agreeing to this in the first place. And you being so comfortable with this whole thing is—”

“You’re wrong,” he cuts in. His hands move from the leather to find my thighs, and I look down to watch his long fingers splay out over my jeans as he steps between my thighs. Heat seeps through the denim where he touches me, and instinctually, I reach out for more.

My fingers weave through his belt loops, and I pull him in closer. He towers over me now, still standing at full height, and for the first time, I actually feel small. Not just in stature, either. Quinton’s presence alone is larger than life, and he’s sucked me into his orbit.

Fuck, what am I even thinking right now?

I crane my neck up to meet his stare. “Wrong how?”

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret,” he whispers, tracing his fingers up and down the denim. “And if you tell a soul, I’d deny it to my dying day. But, Reed…I’m the furthest thing from comfortable right now.”

My brow arches at his attempt to placate me, because he must be lying. He’s practically oozing ease and confidence, not to mention a ridiculous amount of sex appeal. The last one is far too tempting to get lost in, especially with the recent memory of his body pressed against me, the planes of hard muscle and smooth skin I can touch freely and—

“I know you might not believe me, seeing as this whole thing is my idea,” he murmurs, one hand moving from my thigh to skitter up my side, “but I can assure you, I’m just as nervous about this as you are.”

“You’re right,” I rasp, my voice coming out far more graveled than I’d like. “I don’t believe you.”

Not by a fucking long shot.

He shakes his head. “At least you’ve done this before. With another guy, I mean. My level of experience with a dick other than my own is everything we’ve done together.”

“Plenty more than most baby bi’s have.”

“There’s that fucking term again.” He chuckles, and the sound sends a zip of electricity through my body. “Doesn’t make me feel any less like a born-again virgin.”

I crack a smile, finally matching the one he’s been wearing for the past few minutes. “Have you ever kissed a guy before? Besides, uh…”

Besides me?

Quinton’s confidence falters slightly at my question, and I watch him work to swallow before he shakes his head.

“Are you okay with it?” I ask, my eyes moving to his mouth too. “I probably should’ve asked before, but…”

I expected words. A simple yes or no to be his answer. But instead, he leans down, closing the gap between us with a single move until our lips meet for the second time tonight.

The action alone surprises me, but not as much as the soft, sweeping pressure of his mouth. It’s slow and tentative, his kiss, when I was expecting something more brash to match the recklessness I’ve come to associate with Quinton.

It’s the complete opposite of the way we went at each other back in the locker room.

But sweet and gentle don’t last longer than thirty seconds before he asks for more.

One hand anchors in my hair, tilting my head back before tracing the tip of his tongue along the seam of my lips. They part automatically, and the first swipe of his tongue against mine is a taser to the balls, sending me into action.

All nerves gone thanks to the taste of his tongue, my arm wraps around his waist as I pull him into me more. Closer and closer, until not an inch of space separates our bodies. Until my back lands against the leather cushion, dragging him down with me and giving my earlier fantasy life.

Until I’m consumed by his touch, his taste. Just him.

My hands work their way beneath his shirt, dancing up and down the smooth expanse of his back. He shudders under the touch, goosebumps rising along his skin, and for whatever reason, I find the slight sign of vulnerability even sexier.

Quinton’s tongue rolls against mine in time with his hips while his thumb runs the line of my jaw in a feather-light touch. Still keeping a touch of sweetness amidst the ferocity he kisses me with, and I realize it’s the very thing putting me more at ease. I have no idea how he knows it’ll help keep me from losing my shit and bolting, or if maybe it’s a coincidence.

Either way, it makes my heart pound harder in my chest.

Our mouths stay damn near glued together as we pick up where we left off earlier tonight. Clothes make it harder, forcing us to settle for sneaking under waistbands, groping asses, and shamelessly exploring each other as best we can.

But it’s not enough for me.

From the way Quinton’s eyes smolder like two balls of blue fire when he rips his mouth away, it’s not enough for him either. Not even close.

“If that didn’t make my answer obvious, I’m okay with kissing,” he pants against my lips. “So fucking okay with it.”

We both groan when he presses his hips into me, the thick ridge of his cock rubbing against my own erection. The pressure combined with the heat of his mouth lingering a breath away has me burning from the inside out.

“And from the feel of it” —he rolls his hips into mine again— “so are you.”

Okay with it?

Um, yeah. To repeat his sentiment, I’m so fucking okay with it.

“You’re ridiculously good at that,” I murmur, nipping at his throat because I’m obsessed with it. “Like, how? You’ve been into dudes for all of five minutes.”

“Mmm, yes, that you know of,” he teases, fingers tweaking one nipple beneath my shirt. And again, that one little action goes straight to my balls. “But sex is sex, Reed. I don’t need experience with a dude to know how to dry-hump one. I know what feels good to me, so it’s a safe bet it’ll feel good to you too.”

I pull back enough to meet his gaze, floored by what he just said. “And you just applied the same theory to blow jobs?”

He gives me a sheepish look. “Yeah, am I wrong?”

I laugh and shake my head, pulling him back in for another searing kiss and slipping my hands back into his sweats. Gripping at the firm muscle in each palm, I let my fingers drift in closer to his crease while he fucks my mouth with his tongue some more. I expect him to flinch or shy away when my middle finger brushes against his rim, but he just moans with pleasure and kisses me harder.

So, I push further.

We said no anal, which is fine. As someone who tops ninety percent of the time, I can respect that. But maybe he’s down for some backdoor play not involving my cock. Slowly, I press my finger against the tight ring, massaging the opening lightly as I thrust up into him.

“Fuck,” he groans, ripping his mouth away from mine. His eyes burn with lust as he pants out, “You. Me. Bedroom. Now.”

I lick my lips and smirk, kneading his ass in my palm. “You think you’re the one in charge here, de Haas?”

Our gazes lock in challenge, the way they usually do when we’re about to enter one of our verbal sparring matches. The grin on his face is filthy, full of delicious, sinful promises.

“Until you show me differently? Yeah, I think I am.”

He doesn’t give me a second to form a rebuttal, grabbing my wrist and pulling me down the hall toward his room.

“Someone doesn’t know patience.”

Once we’re through the door, he kicks it closed behind him and shoves me down onto the bed. His lips are raw from our kiss, neck red from where my stubble and teeth have been scraping at his skin, and hair on the top of his head a mess from my fingers knotting in the long, silky strands.

I don’t think he’s ever looked sexier in his life.

“Never claimed it to be one of my virtues, Reed. Now strip.”

My stomach flips when he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it in the hamper in his closet. Hard muscle and smooth skin covered in ink are exposed, and instantly, what little remains of my nerves are completely gone. In its place is a shot of adrenaline zipping straight to my dick at the sight of him half-naked.

My eyes trace and map over every inch of his body, taking in the ink covering his back and the length of his arms, trying to figure out which I want to explore first. Something I’ve never dreamed of doing with him, nor the number of filthy images currently in my head right now.

But while we’re within the parameters of this deal, there’s nothing stopping me from doing all those things to my heart’s desire.

Shedding my shirt, I toss it to the ground at the end of the bed. My hands quickly move to my belt, desire coursing through me as I struggle threading the leather out of the loops. Quinton’s already stripped down to his boxers, watching me in amusement as I fumble miserably.

“Need some help?”

The amusement in his tone sets me on edge, and my teeth sink into the fleshy wall of my cheek on instinct, trying not to let him set me off when I’m sure he means nothing by it.

The deep timbre of his laugh floats through the room as he knocks my hands away to undo my belt, ignoring the slight irritation I shoot his way. But he doesn’t care, and doesn’t dare let it faze him.

He’s slow yet methodical in his movements, and Jesus Christ, I didn’t realize someone could make taking clothes off me seductive. But the way his eyes trail over me flicks fire and lust across my bare skin, and by the time he’s got me naked and on display before him, I’m consumed in flames.

Then he strips off the last layer of his own decency, revealing his long, thick, gorgeous cock, and I combust into an inferno.

“Get over here,” I demand gruffly.

My hand anchors at the back of his neck, dragging his mouth back to mine. We’re all teeth and tongue as he layers his body over mine across the mattress. With each grinding roll of his pelvis and harsh pants against my lips, I’m driven to the brink of insanity with want.

I can’t remember a time where I wanted anyone as much as I want Quinton right now.

Digging the ends of my fingers into his ass, I yank him closer before flipping our positions so I’m on top. In control. Exactly where I like to be.

“Mmm, there he is,” he rasps into my mouth before taking my lip between his teeth. “I knew a fighter was inside there somewhere.”

Quinton chooses that moment to press his hips up into mine again, his bare cock rubbing against my own.

“Lube?” I rasp out the word, already leaning away toward the nightstand before he can confirm it’s in there. It is, and I quickly flip the cap open and douse my aching length with the liquid. His attention latches on to my hand working myself over, and where I expect to find fear, regret, or uncertainty, all I see is desire.

Desire, and a whole lot of curiosity.

When my hand wraps around his shaft, lube sliding between my fingers and over his length, he inhales sharply.

“God, your hand feels amazing.”

A smirk makes its way across my face as I reposition myself over him, knowing if this feels good, what’s about to happen next will be other-worldly to him.

But hell if I won’t drive him to begging first.

I take my time coating his shaft, taunting and teasing him with every stroke. Learning exactly how he likes and wants to be touched. I catalog every hitched breath and tortured moan to memory, as if they won’t be permanently seared there by the time this is over.

“You’re a noisy fucker,” I murmur, leaning down to nip at his collarbone when he lets out another groan of pleasure.

“Observant as ever.”

“Mmm,” I hum, rolling my aching cock into his hip as I continue to jack him. “Why am I not surprised?”

His head turns, lips skimming against my skin as he pants out, “Is that gonna be an issue?”

An issue? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

My favorite kind of partner in bed is someone who’s vocal. About what feels good and what doesn’t, of course. But what I really like is hearing how good I’m making the guy feel. It’s powerful and invigorating, having enough control to make them completely lose theirs. I literally get off on it.

So no, I don’t care if he’s loud in bed. This might be one of the few times I actually enjoy Quinton’s constant need to yammer and babble like an idiot.

I shake my head, moving to his mouth and letting my lips brush against his. “Not at all. Just wanted you to be aware.”

“Oh, I am.” He laughs, his hand sinking into the hair at the nape of my neck. “Why do you think I brought you here? I knew Hayes was gone and I could be as loud as I wanted.”

Rather than answering, I continue exploring his body as my fist works him over, my own dick continuing to grind against the crease of his hip like an animal in heat.

“Oh, fucking hell.” His moan comes out breathy and needy, already as keyed up and turned on as I am.

Right now, there’s no rivalry. No hatred or animosity between us. Every awful thing we’ve ever said to each other doesn’t exist in the confines of this room when we’re both hot, naked, and sweaty, seeking a high only the other can provide.

And chase, we fucking do.

His hands are everywhere; on my back, clenching my ass, locked in my hair so tight, he might pull it out. They move around, scraping against my skin, grappling for hold as I stroke him from root to tip. He doesn’t stop clawing at me for a single second as he loses himself.

In me. In my touch. In us, together like this.

And I don’t blame him, because I’m doing the exact same thing.

But as high as he might take me with his body against mine, it’s not enough. I need more. I need him writhing beneath me, begging me to come as I edge him closer and closer. I need his breath against my lips and his tongue warring with mine.

I need friction. Pressure. Aggression and anger, even. Just more than this.

So I take it.

I shift to wrap my fist around us both, the heat of his cock searing against my own as I stroke both our lengths before squeezing my fist a little tighter. It’s exactly what I was looking for, the friction I was seeking, and the pressure sends bolts of lust shooting through my extremities.

“OhholyJesusfuckingGod,” he moans in a single breath. One I’m quick to cut off, stealing oxygen straight from his lungs. It only makes him groan into my mouth again, and I swallow it whole.

His tongue spears between my lips, warring with mine as I take us higher and higher. Edging our way toward impending release.

I twist my palm around the heads on the upstroke, gathering the precum leaking from the tips and smearing it down our lengths. His hips move on reflex, fucking into my palm as I jack us from root to tip and back again. Rutting and chasing his own release as I lose myself in the sensation of his cock gliding against mine.

I roll and rock my pelvis into his, meeting him thrust for thrust as he pants against my lips.

“I’m so…I’m so close,” he utters. “I’m gonna come.”

I am too, lingering right on the edge of peaceful oblivion as I dip down and lick my way up the column of this throat.

“Then come,” I whisper into his ear before nipping at the lobe.

I feel his dick pulse in my palm and against my own, and without warning, his teeth clamp down on my shoulder. He lets out a low groan, and they sink deeper into my flesh. Hard enough to probably draw blood, but for sure enough to brand me yet again.

But I don’t care, because the sounds he makes when he comes is worth it. Those filthy, erotic moans are sure to live rent-free in my head for all the days between these hook-ups.

His release spreads down my fingers, mixing with the lube on our cocks as I keep shuttling my fist over the both of us, bringing myself close to climax. It doesn’t take long before I’m right there behind him, the pain radiating from his bite catapulting me off a damn cliff. I spiral and flail on the way down as my orgasm takes hold, coming harder than I ever have in my life.

Releasing my shoulder from his grip, he sinks back against the mattress in a sated, exhausted heap. My head burrows into the crook of his shoulder, and I follow, my body slumping down against his until we’re connected from head to toe with the mess of sticky cum caught between us.

“I’m not crushing you, am I?” I murmur. The question is more to be polite than anything, because I doubt I could move right now even if I was.

“Nope,” he pants. A breathy, airless laugh comes out of him. “Fuck, and that wasn’t even real sex, but you’re already—without a doubt—the hottest lay of my life.”

Yeah, I’d have to agree with him. Which is problematic. As much as I enjoyed what just happened, I know there’s a good chance the whole reason we’re messing around—for a damn superstition—isn’t gonna last.

Meaning I don’t wanna take the chance of getting too used to it.

I clear my throat, the sudden constriction on my airway making it hard to come up with a response. Simply responding with you too should be easy enough—especially because he was spot-on about the chemistry we have—but the words won’t come out of my mouth.

Instead, I say something else.

Something worse.

“I gotta go.”

I bolt up after saying it, immediately moving to redress. But I’m halted when Quinton’s expression snags my attention. The brief flash of hurt crossing his face is enough to make my regret instant. But I just keep digging my hole, driving the knife in deeper as I do.

“We, uh…fulfilled the superstition or whatever. At least, I think that should’ve covered it. So I’m gonna go home. Sleep. Big game tomorrow, you know?” I trip and stumble over the words, wanting to kick myself as each one comes out with a bitter taste. Even more when I watch as the post-orgasmic haze leaves his face and a mask of indifference takes its place.

God, I’m such a jackass.

The worst part of this entire situation is I’m still butt-ass naked and covered in our cum, only adding to the vulnerability I’m feeling. So I grab my underwear from where they’d been discarded on the floor, slipping them on before finding the rest of my clothes.

“Yeah,” Quinton says slowly, and I hear a mix of irritation and disappointment in his tone. His eyes burn with them as I toss my shirt on over my head and slide into my jeans, watching with a silence capable of making me feel like I’m still stark naked before him.

“Okay, great.” I pause, searching for my shoes…only to realize they’re in the obvious location. Out by the door. Where I took them off when I got here.

For the love of God, just hold it together for another five seconds.

Get your shoes and get out the door.

“Oakley,” he says, cutting into my thoughts.

My spine stiffens, but I ignore him, moving for his bedroom door instead. I’ve got my fingers wrapped around the knob when a hand lands on my shoulder, causing me to freeze. The grip I’ve got on the handle tightens enough to rip the damn thing off, but I’m powerless to move. To breathe. To do fucking anything other than sit and wait for him to speak.

His hand releases me a moment later, and the cool air licking at my skin where his touch is no longer present causes me to look at him.

Instantly, I wish I didn’t.

Because instead of the anger I was expecting, I find the pain of rejection lingering on his face.

He must know it’s there too, because he looks away when I meet his gaze.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he whispers before stepping away from me. “Not that you’ll need it.”